


Edge of Seventeen

by herinfiniteeyes



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herinfiniteeyes/pseuds/herinfiniteeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a hitman. Teenager Eames lives across the hallway with his abusive father. Warning for child abuse, graphic violence, (non-major character) mentions of non-con/incest, suicide, and death...but angst wusses (like myself), rest assured there is a (somewhat?) happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of Seventeen

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for this prompt on the kink meme: Jailbait fic where everything goes wrong. Maybe the underage party's parents find out. Maybe they're neglectful and don't care. Or the power dynamics get all fucked up - maybe the underage party does things he really doesn't want to because he's afraid of being kicked out, or he's a teenage idiot and thinks that's how love works. Make me cry, anons.
> 
> (but preferably an ending where neither char is hopelessly fucked up, and there's at least the vague hope of an A/E future? I know, I know, demanding...)
> 
>  
> 
> http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19632.html?thread=46250416#t46250416

Arthur trudges up the three flights of stairs to his apartment with his mind on a hot shower and an ice cold beer. After a day like this, nothing else will ease the knot of tension nestled between his shoulder blades.

It's 11 o'clock at night, and the hallway leading to his apartment is quiet with the exception of the sound of an infomercial playing in his neighbor's living room. He's only met her once, but she's obviously lonely. He knows her husband died from pancreatic cancer a few years ago, and her only child lives clear across the country. He assumes she keeps the tv on because it's better than the deafening silence that can descend on a person when they're completely alone.

He has his key in the lock when someone comes clambering up the stairs. He turns to see a young man, probably around eighteen or so, trip on the last stair and fall flat on his face. The boy rolls onto his back and laughs as if it's the funniest thing that's ever happened to him. Arthur watches him flop around before he decides to get up. Once he's up and stumbling toward Arthur, he can see that the boy is incredibly attractive.

Arthur's uncomfortable with the fact that he even noticed. He's nearing thirty and he should not be appreciating the way the boy fills out his clothes, and he definitely shouldn't be staring at the kid's ridiculously sexy mouth. He has to shake himself out of it after he realizes he's been staring, but the kid doesn't seem to notice him standing there at all.

When the boy reaches Arthur, he smiles and honest-to-god giggles like an eight-year-old girl. It's ridiculous, really. He's especially surprised when the kid reaches out and messes up Arthur's hair. “Y'look much better now,” the boy slurs.

Arthur realizes now that the boy is totally shitfaced. He's amazed nobody has come to collect him yet.

As if on cue, the door directly across from Arthur's bangs open and a tall, broad man fills the doorway. He looks furious. “Where have you been?” the man snaps angrily.

Arthur freezes and the boy laughs. “Havin' fun, where else?” he says.

The man's face settles into a cold, intimidating mask. “Get in the house.”

The words are deadly calm, but the boy just rolls his eyes. “Make me,” he challenges.

Apparently, this is the wrong thing to say, because the man reaches out and hauls the boy inside. The man doesn't even spare a glance at Arthur before he slams the door and locks it behind him. Arthur shrugs and unlocks his door.

The kid is obviously a teenage menace in need of some punishment.

The next day, Arthur's called out of town on a job that ends up taking a few very stressful weeks in New York. He's been hired to tap the CFO of a major investment firm. According to the dossier Arthur received along with the contract, Mr. Barry Goldstein had been embezzling money from the company for years. He was only caught when his ex-secretary had turned on him and exposed the offshore accounts holding millions of dollars that belonged to the company.

A woman scorned, and all that.

Anyway, Arthur is required to spend the first two weeks observing the target so he can figure out the man's routine. The third week is spent on trying to find an opening to kill him. It's meant to look like an accident so as to avoid any untoward questioning from the authorities. The only reason Goldstein wasn't just getting sent off to prison was because he was the son-in-law of the company's owner. It seems as if the owner wasn't too happy to find out that not only has his son-in-law been cheating on the owner's daughter, but he's also been stealing from the company.

He finally catches Barry alone after an illicit afternoon tryst with one of his many mistresses. He's at home in the shower, completely unaware that Arthur lies in wait just outside of the bathroom door. Mrs. Barry Goldstein is away at a spa retreat in upstate New York courtesy of her father, so she won't be home for at least two more days. She has no idea that her father has ordered this hit on her husband, just like she has no idea that her husband has been stealing from her father's company.

The water shuts off and Arthur slips into the bathroom. Before Goldstein can react, Arthur's leg shoots out and he knocks Goldstein's legs out from under him. The man shouts as his feet lose purchase on the slick bathroom floor and he falls backwards, hitting his head and the middle of his back on the hard edges of the bathtub. The sound of Goldstein's back breaking is almost quiet in the large bathroom. As his body drops into the tub, a smear of blood from where his skull broke the skin of his scalp runs down the wet tile.

Arthur stands there and watches as Goldstein's eyes still and his lips turn bluish purple. It always amazes him how quickly someone can die, to watch the way their body is animated in one moment and completely still the next. Goldstein's skin is already beginning to cool when Arthur steps up to check his pulse, simply to satisfy his need to be meticulous in every detail of his job.

 

When Arthur returns home, it's mid-afternoon and he has his mind on returning some phone calls about job offers. He's thinking maybe he'll take the one in Albuquerque because it sounds interesting, but he's momentarily distracted when the door across from him opens and he sees the drunk boy from the other night.

The boy is obviously sober now, and there's a hunch in his shoulders that speaks of pain or fear. He has his back to Arthur as he locks the apartment door, but when he turns, Arthur sees that half of his face is covered in a mottled bruise. The kid's trying to cover it up with a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, but there's no hiding something that impressive. He looks up to see Arthur staring and he quickly smiles and drops his shoulders into a nonchalant little shrug. “Got in a fight,” he says as he holds his arms out as if to put the bruises on display.

Arthur notes the purple and green bruises along his forearms and wonders what had prompted the fight. He raises an eyebrow and whistles. “Should I see the other guy?” he jokes sardonically.

The kid smirks and shakes his head. “Don't worry about him, he's fine,” he says, and there's a bitter edge to his tone even though he's obviously trying to sound amused instead.

Before Arthur can say anything else, the boy raises his hand in farewell and leaves. Arthur spares a second to think about what the kid's father thinks about his son fighting, but he is soon distracted by returning those important phone calls. An hour later, he has the job in Albuquerque for next week and another one in Seattle slated for next month.

 

Later that night, he's sitting on the couch watching the news and eating dinner. He hears some muted shouting from across the hall, and he assumes that the kid's father found out about the fight. He doesn't sound too pleased.

Arthur frowns and turns up the sound on the television.

 

Several weeks go by before Arthur sees the kid again. He's struggling to open his door with his arms full of groceries when the door across the hall opens and the boy steps out. The momentary loss of concentration results in Arthur dropping his keys and cursing. He rolls his eyes at himself for not thinking to put down the grocery bags before trying to open his door, but he puts them down now and reaches for his keys.

Before he can pick them up, a hand darts out and grabs them. His eyes shoot up and he sees the kid standing there with a grin on his face. Arthur thinks it's strange that the kid is wearing a long sleeve t-shirt when it's hot as balls outside, but he's more focused on the keys currently dangling from the kid's hand. “Um, thanks?” he says.

“Need a hand?” the kid asks, but snatches his hand back when Arthur goes to reach for his keys.

Arthur shrugs and bends down to pick up his groceries. He thinks he might see the boy checking out his ass as he straightens, but he can't be sure. “Sure,” he says.

The kid unlocks his door and opens it for him. Arthur hefts the heavy bags and nods at him. “Thanks,” he says again, but with more sincerity this time. He walks into the apartment and sets the bags down on the counter next to the fridge. He's about to turn back to the door to get his keys, but the kid is right behind him in the kitchen. Arthur wonders how he could have sneaked in like that without his notice, but doesn't really bother to think too much about it.

He reaches out his hand for the keys again, but the kid steps back and shoves them in the front pocket of his baggy jeans. Arthur frowns and feels a little ripple of irritation. The boy may be gorgeous, but he's obviously somewhat of a precocious little pest. “I'll give 'em back to you if you let me hang out for a while,” the kid says.

Arthur isn't sure what to make of this, so he opens his mouth to reply, but the kid beats him to it. “I'm just bored, and you're my hot neighbor, so I figure I'll hold your keys hostage while you entertain me.”

“That's...” Arthur starts, but the kid interrupts him again.

“I'm Eames,” he says. “And you are?”

Arthur's a bit disgruntled now. “Arthur,” he says in a clipped tone.

The boy, Eames, smiles brilliantly at him. “Nice to finally meet you, Arthur,” he says.

Arthur thinks maybe it's very indecent for a grown man of twenty-eight to get a shiver down his spine from the way an annoying teenager says his name.

 

“Soooo...what do you do for a living?” Eames asks. He pulls up a stool and situates himself at the the counter. He looks at Arthur expectantly.

Arthur wonders who this kid thinks he is, and why he feels completely comfortable barging into people's homes. In any case, Arthur knows he's not the type of person an overly friendly teenager should be making nice with. He does _kill_ people for a living, after all.

Not that Eames knows this, but that's not really the point. Arthur looks him straight in the eye and says, “I'm an interior designer.”

Eames' laugh is shockingly loud. “I don't believe you.”

Arthur shrugs and turns to put away the groceries. “I'm good at what I do,” he says as he puts a box of instant oatmeal in the cupboard by the sink. This statement, at least, is the truth. Arthur is _very_ good at his job.

Eames purses his tempting lips and appears confused. “I thought only chicks and gay guys did jobs like that,” he says.

Arthur's spine stiffens and he looks over his shoulder at Eames. “I am gay,” he says coolly.

Eames gnaws on his bottom lip. He has the decency to look abashed. “Er, sorry,” he mumbles. Arthur spots the color high in his cheeks and wonders at it.

“In any case, that's a ridiculous assumption to make about an entire profession,” Arthur says. He's too busy rinsing vegetables to notice the embarrassment on Eames' young face.

“So, uh, what does an interior designer do, exactly?” Eames asks.

Arthur looks at him. “Do you really want to know?” he challenges.

Eames smirks and shrugs. “No, not really. Do you like sports?”

Arthur is about to answer when Eames' phone rings. Eames fumbles as he frantically digs it out of his pocket. Arthur wonders if it's his girlfriend, but it's really none of his business, so he goes back to washing his produce.

“Yeah, 'course I'm at home. How far away are you? No, I'm not doing anything like that, sir,” Eames says. Arthur's surprised to note the change in his tone and decides that Eames' father must be the overly strict and smothering type.

Eames hangs up and quickly stands. “Guess I'll see ya later, Arthur.”

Eames is just about to the door when Arthur stops him. “Wait! My keys, please.”

The kid just laughs and tosses them over his shoulder. Arthur catches them in his hand and watches Eames' retreat back to his own apartment.

 

Arthur's next job takes him out of the country, up into Canada. He's only gone for a week, but when he returns, he has an apartment full of dead plants and a message on his machine from the woman who usually comes to take care of them while he's gone. He cracks a dry leaf in his hand and sighs.

The next time he sees Eames, he flags him down in the hallway. “I have an offer for you,” he says.

Eames looks intrigued. “Whatcha want?” he asks. There's suspicion and hope in his tone, but Arthur can't really parse that particular mix.

“I go out of town a lot...to visit clients...and my housesitter quit. She usually comes over to water the plants and check that everything's okay,” Arthur explains. He wonders why he's even doing this, but there's just something about Eames that he can't quite put his finger on. He has no idea why.

Before he can ask, Eames smiles and says, “And now you need to find someone else?”

Arthur nods. “I pay well, and you'd only need to check on my place every couple of days,” he says. It's not like Arthur has anything incriminating in his apartment that might lead to Eames figuring out his true profession. The only weapons he has in the house are well-hidden in his bedroom, and Eames won't have any reason to go in there. Only someone very clever and crafty could discover his lethal stash, anyway.

Eames appears to consider this, but Arthur can already tell he's going to say yes. “I suppose I could,” he says.

“Great,” Arthur says. “Let me get your number, and next time I need to go out of town I'll show you what to do.”

He and Eames exchange information and Arthur nods in farewell before disappearing into his apartment.

 

The next time Arthur needs to take off for a job, he pulls out the props he uses for the interior designer cover. Fabric swatches, paint samples, and drawings of interior architectural features fill a convincing project notebook. He sends a silent thanks to his sister, the _actual_ interior designer in the family.

He sets the notebook on the counter close to his suitcase and waits for Eames to show up. His spare key is warm in his hand as he looks around to ensure he hasn't left anything suspicious laying about.

When the doorbell rings, he opens the door to find Eames standing there with a baseball cap tugged low over his face. It does a piss poor job of hiding the black eye and cut across the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted, but he still grins at Arthur. “At your service,” he says. Arthur steps back to let him through the door.

After a moment of watching Eames wander around the living room with his hands deep in his pockets, Arthur shakes himself and says, “Let me show you around.” Eames nods and follows him around the apartment as Arthur points out each plant and anything else that needs Eames' attention while Arthur is gone.

Eames appears to take everything in and smiles when Arthur finishes his tour. “Got it,” he says.

Arthur holds out the spare key and raises his eyebrow when Eames backs up for a second before hesitantly reaching for the key. “You'll need this to get in,” he says slowly. “Also, you'll need to make sure you lock up every time you leave.”

Eames' shoulders relax and he curls his hand around the key. He shakes his head and laughs off his awkwardness. “Right. Okay.”

Arthur's not sure what that's all about, but he shrugs it off and tells Eames he'll be back in five days.

 

Arthur is satisfied when he returns from his trip to find his plants looking healthy and his apartment in the same shape he left it. He slips Eames a generous amount of money and makes sure to call him before he leaves town again.

Three months into the arrangement, and Arthur notices that Eames still leaves the spare key on the kitchen counter rather than keeping it for the next time. Arthur doesn't say anything.

 

It's early December and Arthur has a job concerning a Californian politician currently visiting Mexico City. The man has some shady business associates who are concerned with the increasing amount of time the man has been spending with the D.A. working on a drug trafficking case in Washington.

Arthur calls Eames. When he gets there, Arthur has the key to his apartment on a keyring. He doesn't know why he does it, but when he hands it over this time he says, “Go ahead and keep it.”

Eames looks shocked. “But...why?”

Arthur crosses his arms and raises his eyebrow. “Are you going to have parties here while I'm gone?”

Eames chokes. “No!”

“Bring young ladies over to screw in my bed?”

Eames' mouth hangs open. “ _Definitely_ no,” he says tightly.

Arthur tosses the keyring at Eames, who catches it against his chest and looks at Arthur wide-eyed. “You've never given me a reason not to trust you, Eames. I don't think I need to worry about you, do I?”

Eames shakes his head. “No, sir,” he says with a tiny but pleased smile.

Arthur ignores the heat in his veins from the “sir.” He knows that's what Eames calls his dad, too, so there's no reason to imagine Eames spread out beneath him with his face flushed in pleasure as he says things like _“Please fuck me, sir!”_

He clears his throat and awkwardly pats Eames on the shoulder as he turns to pick up his suitcase and leave. “I'll be back in ten days,” he says.

Because his back is turned, he doesn't see the way Eames bites his lip and stares down at the keyring in his hand as if he's just been given the moon.

 

He's on the beach in Mexico, tailing the mark, when his cell phone rings. He frowns down at the display when he sees Eames' name pop up. Eames has never used his number before. Arthur's always the one to call him.

“Hello?” he says.

“Uh, Ar-Arthur?” Eames says. His voice sounds wet and raspy.

Arthur's frown deepens. “Yeah? Is something wrong? Is my apartment on fire?” God help Eames if he interrupted Arthur while he's working if it's just for a chat.

Eames clears his throat. “No, uh, sorry, I didn't actually mean to call you. Sorry.” He hangs up before Arthur can formulate a response.

“Hrmph,” Arthur grumbles as he shoves his phone back in the pocket of his ridiculous Bermuda shorts. The weather in Mexico was hotter than Hades, and he was trying to fit in among the other tourists anyway. In his t-shirt and shorts, he looked like any of the college boys currently littering the beach.

He forgets about the weird phone call when the mark sits up on his towel and greets a tall man who fits the description of the district attorney. Arthur ducks behind a group of guys carrying a cooler down onto the beach and tries to get closer.

He's not entirely surprised when he sees the D.A. bend down to give the mark a sloppy kiss that speaks of familiarity and confidence in its welcome. He has the man paying him on the phone before the attorney even sits down.

 

The next day, Arthur's flying home tanned and two million dollars richer. Since the job took a couple days less than expected, he makes a note to call Eames and let him know he's back. He does so on the cab ride home from the airport, only for it to go straight to voicemail. When he checks the time, he sees that Eames is probably still in school for the day.

He is therefore surprised to find Eames passed out on his couch when he arrives home. He sets his luggage down and approaches the living room, wondering what the kid is doing here in the middle of the day.

His questions are answered when he sees the first aid supplies scattered across his coffee table and the cuts and bruises along Eames' arms. He sees small round bruises across his neck. Arthur's choked enough people to death to recognize fingerprints.

He notes the way Eames is curled into himself on his side, cradling his torso and breathing shallowly. Suspicious, Arthur carefully pries Eames' arm away from his ribs and winces in sympathy when he sees the dark bruises there. He hopes the kid doesn't have a broken rib, but if he's able to sleep, then it's more likely that they're just bruised. Still, Arthur knew from experience that that shit hurt. Bruised ribs weren't anything to scoff at.

He carefully replaces Eames' arm across his chest and looks back at the table. An upended bottle of Tylenol, an open package of band-aids, a roll of gauze and a melted ice pack cover the glass top. Aside from that, there's a half-empty glass of what appears to be water, but upon further inspection is actually vodka. Arthur shakes his head at the kid's stupidity in getting liquored up when he's obviously had the shit kicked out of him.

Eames looks like he'll be out for a while, so Arthur cleans up the table and goes into the bathroom to shower and change his clothes. He'll find out why Eames is here whenever he wakes up, and then he'll insist that he call his father to take him to the hospital. Those ribs need to get checked.

Arthur decides to risk doing some work on his laptop, but stays in his bedroom. The apartment is quiet as a tomb, but he doesn't mind. He keeps an ear trained on Eames' breathing, prepared to act on even the slightest change that may indicate further injury.

The sky is dark outside Arthur's bedroom window when he finally hears Eames stir in the living room. The couch creaks and the kid moans in obvious pain. He saves his work and closes his laptop before getting up to go check on him.

When Arthur comes out of the bedroom, Eames is sitting up with an arm around his chest and the other arm slung over his face, hiding his eyes. His chest is rising and falling in rapid little breaths, as if Eames is afraid to breathe deeply. He watches as Eames drops the arm on his face and leans forward to pop open the bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out a few pills and swallows them along with the remaining vodka in the glass.

Arthur clears his throat and Eames jumps up from the couch like he's been shocked. He looks terrified, but that look is quickly replaced with agony as he curses and curls around his ribs again. His face is pale and has a sickly sheen to it. Arthur can see flop sweat dripping down his forehead. “Oh fuck,” Eames groans as he sways and tries to find his equilibrium.

When Arthur steps forward and reaches out to help steady him, Eames jerks away and looks around in a panic. “ _Fuck!_ I'm sorry, Arthur, I didn't mean – well, I'll just...go. I'll go. Sorry, I'm really, really sorry,” Eames babbles as he frantically searches for his shirt and shoes. Arthur winces every time Eames bends down and imagines how much it must hurt.

“You don't have to go,” he says. “But I'm sure your dad would like to know where you are.”

Eames' face twists and if anything, he looks even sicker. “I'm sure he would,” he mumbles under his breath as he shoves his feet into his shoes. His shirt hangs off his shoulders haphazardly, the buttons done up crookedly.

Arthur sighs and tries to stop him, but Eames zips past him and reaches the door before Arthur can say or do anything else. “I'm just, I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to stay, I just – I'll bring your key over tomorrow. I'm sorry,” he apologizes. Arthur wonders why Eames is freaking out so much, but maybe it's just the pain making him act so jumpy.

Eames disappears across the hall and Arthur shrugs. Whenever his dad gets home from work, he's sure to take him in to get checked for serious injuries. It's not really Arthur's place to intervene. Obviously, Eames had been in a pretty bad fight. He'd probably been sent home from school with a suspension.

 

He's cleaning up the coffee table when he hears Eames' dad come home. The walls aren't paper thin here, but they must be thin enough because Arthur can hear furious shouting within seconds of the door closing across the hall.

He pauses and asks himself why Eames' dad is yelling _before_ making sure Eames is okay. Surely, he'll be angry with his son's behavior, but Arthur imagines his first concern would be his son's health.

When he hears a dull thud hit the wall, he freezes. Warily, he steps out into the hallway and looks around, but the rest of the doors are firmly shut. He approaches Eames' front door and presses his ear to the wall next to it. His gut is churning and his instincts are rioting. He jumps back a bit when another thud hits the wall.

He quickly starts to piece things together. He curses himself for being such a blind idiot. Sure, Eames did a pretty convincing job of covering this up, but Arthur wasn't naive. He should have seen the signs. Though he's reluctant to tangle with the authorities, there's no way he can leave this alone. Eames is a good kid, and even if he wasn't, he still doesn't deserve this.

His phone is in his hand and his finger is on the 9 when he hears the distinct sound of choking coming from the other side of the wall. Without a second thought, he drops his phone and kicks the fucking door open.

Eames' dad has Eames pressed up against the wall with his forearm lodged against his throat. His other arm ends in a fist. He's punching Eames repeatedly in the kidneys and Eames is choking through the blood in his mouth. Arthur can already see that his nose is broken from the awkward angle and the blood pouring down his face.

“You little fucking bastard! You think you can just stay out all night? I let you live under my roof, I put food in your fucking ungrateful mouth, and this is how you act?” Eames' father is growling. His face is so red that it's nearly purple in his fury.

The meaty sound of flesh against flesh spurs Arthur into immediate action. Before they even realize he's there, Arthur has Eames' father in a firm choke hold and he's dragging him away from Eames. He can hear Eames gasping for air as he aims his fist at the other man's face.

Arthur hears Eames trying to say something, but he's too focused on incapacitating his father to understand what he's saying. He knees Eames' dad in the groin and aims another well-placed punch at his face. The man slumps to the floor, unconscious, and Arthur stands over him in vicious satisfaction.

Only then does he hear what Eames has been trying to say.

“You shouldn't have done that,” Eames gasps, his throat raw. He looks like death.

Concerned, Arthur steps over the body passed out on the floor and reaches out to him. Eames flinches away and presses himself against the wall. His eyes are almost swollen shut. “You need to get help,” he says. “I'll call 911.”

“No!” Eames shouts. “I – I can't. If, if, if...if he finds out, he'll kill me,” he says raggedly. “I can't, I can't, I can't,” he pants, rocking back against the wall in obvious terror.

Arthur keeps his distance from Eames despite the instinct to go to him and make sure he's okay. He's obviously not, but it's not like Arthur can _force_ Eames to get help. Still, he's worried that Eames is hurt far beyond Arthur's ability to help him. It's that, more than anything, that spurs him into action.

“Right,” Arthur says. “I'll be right back.” He disappears back across the hall, grabbing his cell phone from the floor on the way. He opens his secret stash and pulls out a long-lasting tranquilizer/sedative as he dials Yusuf's number.

“Arthur,” Yusuf answers in a cheerful tone. He's one of the few people who knows Arthur's real name, but chooses to use his alias for security issues. Arthur appreciates that.

“I need your services,” he says in a rush. He's already making his way back across the hall with the tranq gun.

“Sure thing. Where are you?” Yusuf replies, all business now.

“You know where,” Arthur says vaguely.

“I do, indeed,” Yusuf says and they hang up.

Eames is still huddled against the wall, his blood dripping on the floor at his feet, when Arthur returns. He looks terrified, but not of his father now.

Arthur realizes he's terrified of _him_.

“You didn't call the cops, did you?” he says shakily. “Please, please tell me you didn't call the cops,” he begs.

Arthur's mouth thins and he shakes his head. “I called a friend; he's discreet.” He bends down to get his arms under Eames' dad. “Now tell me which room is his.”

Eames shakes his head. “No, no...what are you doing? What are you going to do?”

Arthur sighs in frustration. He has no idea how much longer this guy will be unconscious, so time is of the essence. “I'm just going to sedate him so that we have time for my friend to examine you. I won't make you call the cops, but I'm sure as fuck not leaving you here to drown in your own blood or slip into a coma from a fucking concussion,” he growls.

Eames shrinks into himself and wipes a hand under his bloody, broken nose. “First...first door on the left,” he stutters.

Nodding in thanks, Arthur hefts the unconscious man and drags him down the hall to his bedroom. Once he has him on the bed, Arthur resists the urge to break the man's neck and shoots him with the tranquilizer instead. The man's breathing deepens and he slips out of the room to check on Eames.

 

Eames is sitting at the small kitchen table when Arthur returns from the bedroom. He's slumped down in the uncomfortable-looking chair, staring vacantly at a plate of toast and scattered crumbs. Arthur notes that the toast has barely been touched, and it's obvious that Eames has no interest in eating it now.

He wonders why Eames has chosen to sit at the table instead of somewhere more comfortable, like the couch. He approaches carefully, all too aware of the tension and pain reflected in every line of Eames' body. “Eames,” he says quietly.

Eames doesn't turn to look at him. If anything, he seems to fold into himself even more. “'m fine,” he mumbles so softly that Arthur can barely hear him.

He notices the front door stands wide open and moves to close it, but the door frame is damaged from when Arthur kicked it open. He pushes it closed as much as he can, but opens it again to peek out into the hall when he hears someone coming up the stairs. Sure enough, it's Yusuf with his black doctor's bag that he uses for clandestine house calls such as this one.

Arthur pulls the door open again and waves Yusuf into Eames' apartment. He glances over his shoulder at Eames as Yusuf wordlessly follows him inside. Eames is still slumped in the chair, looking miserable and obviously attempting to ignore Arthur altogether.

Yusuf takes in his surroundings and looks to Arthur for an explanation, but Arthur just shakes his head minutely and Yusuf nods as he gets the message: _no questions_. Arthur gestures to Eames and goes to stand next to him as Yusuf sets his bag on a t.v. tray next to the couch. “Eames?” Arthur says softly. “My friend, Yusuf, is here. He won't say anything to anyone. He just wants to check you out, okay?”

Arthur steps around the table so that he can look at Eames directly, but Eames' expression is vacant. His eyes are wide and empty, as if he's asleep with his eyes open. He's just...expressionless. Arthur stays calm, even though he feels like tearing shit apart with his bare hands because _jesus, he should have known!_

Unfortunately, his guilt isn't going to do Eames any good, so he snaps out of it and comes around the table again to help Eames out of the chair. He's docile and loose-limbed as Arthur guides him over to the couch where Yusuf is waiting with his supplies.

Once Eames is settled on the couch, Yusuf bends over him to flash a light in his eyes. “He doesn't have a concussion, but I'll have to set his nose. Looks pretty painful,” Yusuf says as he moves on to press gingerly on Eames' face to search for broken bones. Eames just sits there staring off into space, seemingly without comprehension.

Arthur hovers while simultaneously keeping an ear out to listen for Eames' father. He's pretty well-sedated, but Arthur isn't willing to risk ignoring him completely in favor of watching over Eames. Yusuf continues his examination, quietly keeping up a running commentary telling Eames what he's doing, but Eames doesn't acknowledge him until Yusuf says he's all done.

“Who are you?” he asks, sounding dazed.

Yusuf pats Eames on the back of the hand, one of the few places not covered in lacerations or bruises, and says, “I'm Yusuf, Arthur's friend.”

“Are you a doctor?” he whispers.

Yusuf shakes his head. “Not as such, no. I went to medical school, graduated even, but my license lapsed because I was more interested in being a chemist instead.”

“Oh,” Eames says hollowly. He stirs. “You won't tell anyone, will you? My dad...” he cuts off, obviously afraid he's said too much.

Realization dawns on Yusuf's face, and he scowls in distinct disapproval, but he doesn't say anything to upset Eames. “I won't tell anyone unless you want me to,” he says. “You can trust me.”

Arthur waits until Eames spaces out again and jerks his head at Yusuf to indicate that he wants to speak to him alone.

 

Yusuf's still frowning as he follows Arthur into the kitchen. “You need to call the police,” Yusuf says as soon as they're out of Eames' hearing.

Arthur pinches his mouth and crosses his arms defensively. “I tried to tell him that, but he's completely terrified. He won't let me do anything,” he says. “That's why I called you. I can't get him to tell anyone, but I couldn't just leave him here like this.”

Yusuf sighs and runs a hand over the stubble covering the lower half of his face. He looks incredibly weary, much like Arthur feels. “I see. Well, he can't stay with this guy. The kid's nose is broken, he has at least two bruised ribs, lacerations and bruises over most of his body...and he'll be pissing blood thanks to those kidney shots.”

Arthur's jaw clenches grimly. “If he doesn't get away, his dad's going to kill him someday.”

Yusuf nods. He looks at Arthur, and Arthur looks back. They stand there in the kitchen, silently communicating what neither is willing to say out loud with Eames in the next room.

After Yusuf leaves, Arthur returns to the living room and silently watches Eames. He's still sitting on the couch. He's staring down at his hands, clenching them into fists before relaxing them. He does this several times before Arthur speaks up. “How about you come stay with me?” he says.

Eames shakes his head, but Arthur crosses the room and pushes the t.v. tray out of the way so he can kneel in front of him. He lays a hand on Eames' knee and waits until Eames will look at him. “You can't stay here,” he says. “What will happen when your dad wakes up?”

Eames flinches, and Arthur realizes he's shaking like a leaf. “You shouldn't have come,” he whispers. “You – you should have just minded your own business. He's going to be so mad when he wakes up. You don't even know. You should leave.”

Arthur gently squeezes Eames' knee. “I'll go if you come with me,” he says.

Eames shakes his head and releases a pathetic and twisted parody of a laugh. “I can't. I – I just can't.”

“Yes, you can. You _can_.”

Eames shakes his head again, but Arthur reaches out and carefully pulls him up off the couch. “I don't like to force this on you, Eames, but I can't let you stay here. Your dad...he'll kill you if you don't get away from here.”

Eames collapses into him and Arthur feels hot tears soak through his shirt onto his shoulder. Carefully, so carefully, Arthur wraps his arms around Eames' waist and holds him close as anguished sobs wrack his body. “He'd find me and kill me anyway,” he says brokenly into Arthur's neck.

Determined now, Arthur pulls away just enough to leave one arm around Eames' waist. He leads him through the apartment and across the hall. He's uncomfortable staying so close to Eames' father, but he doesn't want to move Eames tonight unless he absolutely has to, so he locks the door and the deadbolt before helping Eames to his bedroom. “We'll stay here tonight, and get out of here first thing in the morning.”

Eames looks exhausted. “He'd find me.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Eames, trust me.”

A look of confusion passes through Eames' expression. “Wait...I thought you said you were an interior designer. How'd you...how'd you, y'know...?”

 

Arthur has to make a decision. This kid – wait, no, he can no longer think of Eames that way. Eames hasn't really been a kid for a long time, if his reaction to the abuse is anything to go by. “I'm not really an interior designer,” he admits tiredly.

Eames' smile is quicksilver fast but disappears into a painful grimace as he cups his nose through the bandage Yusuf applied earlier. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and leaves the bedroom to get him a glass of water and some Tylenol. It's not going to do much for the level of pain Eames is in, but he's afraid to give him anything stronger. When he returns to the bedroom, he takes Eames' hand and shakes a few pills out of the bottle into his palm and hands him the glass of water. “Drink up,” he says sternly.

Eames obeys, but his curiosity won't be denied. Arthur sighs and collapses on the bed next to him. He obviously needs to convince Eames that he can keep him safe if he's going to leave here with him tomorrow morning. “I guarantee that if you come with me, you'll be safe. I won't let anything happen to you,” he says calmly.

Eames' expression is shuttered now. “How do you know?” he argues.

Taking a real chance now, Arthur stands and begins to pull weapons from various hiding places on his person. There's the dagger in his sleeve, the butterfly knife at his lower back, the brass knuckles from his pocket, and a small pistol from an ankle holster on each leg. He also has a thin wire used as a garrote, a straight razor, and pepper spray. He lays all of this on the bedspread next to Eames and watches him carefully as Eames gapes at the small arsenal. “What. The. Fuck,” Eames says slowly.

Arthur waits silently. Eames picks up each item and examines them carefully. Finally, he looks at Arthur in something akin to awe or disbelief. “Are you James Bond or some shit?” he asks.

“Not really,” he replies.

“Then what the fuck are you?” Eames demands.

Arthur shrugs. “I don't think you really want to know.”

Eames drops the brass knuckles he'd been trying on and glares up at him. “I think I _really do_.”

They stare at each other until Arthur looks away and begins to pace at the foot of the bed. “The point is, I know how to protect you, and I won't let your father get anywhere near us. You have to trust me on that.”

Eames lies back on the bed and looks up at Arthur. “Okay, I believe you. But why do you even care?” he asks.

 _That's the real question here, isn't it?_ “Because.”

Eames' eyebrows shoot up. “That's not an actual answer, you know.”

Arthur turns and glares at him. “How old are you, anyway?” he asks.

Eames looks like he wants to lie, but he sighs instead. “I'm seventeen. What about you?”

Arthur firmly tells himself that he's not disappointed. Eames is still a child, at least in the eyes of the law. “Twenty-eight.”

“Stop trying to distract me from the question. Why are you doing all of this?” he asks stubbornly.

The answer isn't so simple, but Arthur tries his best. “You're a good kid, Eames. I don't know you that well, but I do know that I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do everything within my power to get you out of this shitty situation.”

Eames' face goes from open and curious to closed and stony, just like that. “I see. So I'm just some kid you feel sorry for,” he says hollowly.

 

Arthur doesn't show Eames just how wrong he is about that, because it's really not the time or place for any sort of declaration. “Not at all,” he says, and tries to leave it at that.

Unfortunately, Eames doesn't know when to leave well enough alone. Arthur watches him get up onto his knees and push the weapons to the far side of the bed. Then, kneeling, he inches his way to where Arthur is still standing next to the bed. Arthur freezes, completely unprepared for what Eames does next.

“I'm not a kid,” Eames murmurs as he looks up at Arthur through heavy-lidded eyes. This look would probably be lethal if Eames wasn't currently sporting two black eyes and a broken nose, but it's still pretty detrimental to Arthur's sanity as it is. “I'll show you.”

Eames' smile is slow and dirty as he reaches for Arthur's fly, but Arthur flinches back out of his reach. He has to swallow a couple of times before he's able to speak. “Jesus, Eames. What are you _doing_?”

Eames drops his hands and scowls. “What does it look like I'm doing?” he snaps.

Arthur shakes his had to clear it. “Like you were about to try and start something you shouldn't,” he snaps back.

“What, you think I can't suck your cock better than a fucking Hoover?” Eames says defiantly. “Because I can. You think I'm some stupid, inexperienced kid, but I've been fucking for years. I can do things you've probably never _seen_.”

“Jesus,” Arthur mumbles again.

Eames must take this as an invitation, because he starts to advance on Arthur again. Arthur steps back to put some space between them, but Eames leans into him and he's forced to put a hand against Eames' shoulder to push him away. “None of that matters. I won't do this. You're injured and emotional. You need to rest,” Arthur insists.

The look on Eames' face makes something sour in Arthur's stomach, but he's not going to back down on this. “What about when I'm better?” Eames asks.

Arthur shakes his head. “You're still seventeen.”

Eames growls in frustration and throws his hands into the air. “Well, why the fuck am I here then, if you don't want to fuck me?” he yells.

“Would you be quiet, please?” Arthur hisses. “I don't want your dad to wake up and find you here just because you're throwing a fit!”

It's definitely the wrong thing to say, but Arthur can't take it back now. Eames just...deflates. His face has a sickly greyish hue, and the cuts and bruises stand out as a livid reminder against the paleness of his skin. Arthur wishes he would have figured out what was going on long before now, but the only thing he can do now is make sure it never happens again. He feels a fierce sense of protectiveness where Eames is concerned, something he's not going to bother examining until they're out of this mess.

“Look,” Arthur says, “let's just...let's just get some rest. We'll have plenty of time to talk about this tomorrow, okay?”

Eames has his arms crossed defensively against his chest, and he's refusing to look at Arthur, but he gives him a curt nod anyway.

“Okay, I'll take the couch. There are clean towels under the sink, though I don't think taking a shower would be a very good idea right now,” Arthur says. “But, if you want to, go ahead.”

Eames stays silent.

Arthur sighs. “Right. Well, get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning,” he says.

The light goes out in his bedroom as he settles down on the couch. He sleeps restlessly, but he must have fallen into a deep sleep around dawn, because when he wakes up he notices something is wrong.

His bedroom door is open, his bed is empty in the grey morning light –

and Eames is gone.

 

Arthur stays cool and collected. This is not a time for panic, even though a thousand different scenarios are running through his head. Sometime in the past twenty-four hours or so, he has apparently appointed himself Eames' protector, which is ridiculous because...well, because usually he _kills_ people for a living.

He hasn't tried to protect anyone since Julie, and look how well that turned out.

Thinking of her brings Arthur back to the present. He's currently looking through his apartment for a note or some other sign from Eames that he intends to return, but so far he's empty-handed. He tells himself to be rational, but rationality is quickly disappearing as he comes to the realization that Eames must have left with no intention of coming back.

It's still pretty early, but he's sure that the sedative he'd slipped Eames' father has worn off by now. He's reluctant to go to their apartment, but he _needs_ to know if Eames is there. He knows that Eames' dad would have recognized him last night, so it's entirely possible that he'd come to collect Eames while Arthur was asleep.

The only problem with that idea is that Arthur's an incredibly light sleeper. Two tours on the ground in Iraq as a sniper will do that to you.

So obviously, if Eames' dad had come to get Eames and Eames didn't want to leave, then there would have been an altercation loud enough to rouse Arthur from his sleep.

That leaves one other scenario. The only plausible possibility here is that Eames made the choice to leave on his own. This would not be a bad thing if Arthur could be sure that Eames has a safe place to go, people to help him get on his feet, and a world in which a seventeen-year-old runaway can make a life for himself. Unfortunately, he can't be sure. He knows he won't be able to just forget Eames and leave him to his own devices, or worse, in the brutal hands of his own father.

He gets dressed, combs his hair, grabs his gun and a small selection of knives. On impulse, he also grabs his lockpick set and tucks it into the pocket of his hoodie. The hall is quiet in the early morning, so he slips out and looks across the hall. The door is closed. Arthur looks up and down the hall before he strolls over and presses his ear against the wall, just like the night before.

The apartment beyond is silent. He risks a knock on the door, but nobody comes to answer, so Arthur feels safe in trying the knob. It's locked, of course.

He makes quick work of the lock and the deadbolt, but he soon realizes he needn't have bothered. The furniture is all still there, because these apartments come furnished, but the place has the feel of abandonment. Arthur does a cursory search anyway. The dresser drawers are empty of clothes, the beds are stripped bare, and while there's still food in the fridge, there aren't any dirty dishes or the like anywhere.

He briefly considers canvassing the building to see if anyone has seen anything, but there's an itch at the back of his neck that tells him he needs to get a move on if he wants this situation to end well.

With his phone in hand, Arthur locks up the apartment and heads back to his own for supplies. Eames' dad may have escaped this time, but Arthur's going to make damn sure that he won't get away again.

 

It only takes about three hours for Arthur and his contacts to track down Eames' father. He's staying at a shitty rent-by-the-hour motel a few towns over. He obviously hasn't gotten far, much to Arthur's intense satisfaction.

Yusuf calls to check on Eames, and Arthur tells him what happened. Yusuf is the kind of guy who feels invested in the people he helps, so Arthur promises to call him once he has control over the situation.

Arthur decides it's best to wait until nightfall before he goes to the motel, so he spends the rest of the day preparing his apartment for a long absence. He makes arrangements through Yusuf to find a sublet and moves his personal effects into a storage facility on the other end of the city. He's used to moving fast, so there isn't much to take aside from his weapons and his clothes.

He puts a call through to Nash for a couple of passports with aliases. He feels like a slight creeper for doing it, but he finds Eames' Facebook page through a quick search and pulls a picture off it for Nash to use. While he's on Eames' page, he looks for any useful information, but doesn't find any.

He pretends the pictures of Eames with what appears to be a boyfriend aren't interesting. Arthur shoves the slight twist of jealousy in his gut deep down into his own personal denial dungeon.

(He may or may not double check on Eames' relationship status, but he tells himself it's only because he needs to be sure that Eames doesn't have anyone special he might try to contact.)

It's seven o'clock and the sun is setting when Arthur locks up behind him and throws his duffel bag in the trunk of a nondescript rental car. He has a couple stops to make before he gets to the motel.

At Nash's place, Arthur hands him a stack of bills and Nash slides a manila envelope containing all the necessary documents across the table. Arthur inspects the papers and passports before he gives Nash a satisfied nod and stands up. “Thanks, Nash.”

Nash flaps his hand in a dismissive gesture and follows him to the door. “So, who's the kid?” he asks curiously.

Arthur's mouth pinches shut. He doesn't like to talk about his jobs, for obvious reasons. Nash is a good contact to have, however, so he gives him the bare minimum. “A client,” he says.

Nash's eyebrow shoots up in his skinny face. Arthur steps outside and leaves him standing there without a goodbye.

 

His next stop is to Mal's place. Her classy French-inspired bar is the perfect cover for her real occupation as an arms dealer. Her husband, Dom, manages the bar while Mal floats through on occasion to lend it some elegance. When Arthur arrives, she's standing at the gleaming cherry-stained bar in a little black dress and impractical high heels. When she sees Arthur, she meets him halfway with air kisses and a cloud of expensive French perfume. “It's good to see you again,” she says.

Arthur smiles and pulls her in for an affectionate hug that covers them as he whispers into her ear, “I need a few things.”

Mal pulls back and beams at him as she pats his cheek. “Come, we have so much to catch up on,” she says. Arthur knows the rest of the bar will only see a beautiful woman greeting an old friend, but Arthur sees the shrewd curiosity in her steady gaze.

She calls out to Dom to let him know they're going to “the sitting room” for a chat, and the blond man smiles and waves them off. Mal takes his hand and steers him through the small industrial kitchen behind the bar to a staircase that descends into the basement. At the base of the stairs, there are boxes of liquor and some tables and chairs in need of repairs, but behind a particular stack of boxes is a hidden door. Mal enters the combination and the heavy bulletproof door just barely opens with a quiet _snick_.

Beyond the door is a huge room lined with an impressive array of weaponry. There are handguns, sniper rifles, knives of all shapes and sizes, a rocket launcher, grenades, throwing stars, machetes, you name it. Mal stands back and lets Arthur shop. “Looking for anything in particular, or just feeling the need to browse the merchandise?” she asks.

Arthur picks up a small dagger and tests the edge with his thumb. A small bead of blood wells up and he licks it off. “I've got a job. Haven't really decided how I wanna finish this one yet,” he says casually.

Mal turns and closes the door. The tumblers fall into place and Arthur knows they're locked in. Mal's the only one who knows the code. This is Mal's way of trying to get more information out of him. He'd be annoyed if he thought Mal would use the information for her own purposes, but he knows her enough by now to realize that she's just making friendly conversation.

“A little birdie tells me you're on a personal mission. A vendetta, perhaps?” she says as she examines her flawless cuticles.

Arthur shrugs and moves on to a particularly wicked-looking blade that may or may not ignite a little spark of lust in his veins. He picks it up and caresses the carved handle made of ivory. Oh, the things he could do with this knife. He's already a bit in love with it.

“I think you should buy it dinner before you touch it so intimately,” Mal says in a tone laced with amusement. His silence only spurs her on. “Well?”

Arthur places the knife to the side, but not too far. He's already planning to get in touch with someone about a custom sheath for it. He won't use it tonight, but it's coming with him anyway. “I have a new client, is all,” he says as he wanders over to the guns.

Mal's smirk tells him that she isn't fooled for a second. “The birdie tells me your new 'client' is a teenage boy,” she pushes.

Arthur snorts and tests the weight of a Glock in his hand. “Your little birdie sure is talkative,” he says sardonically.

Mal gives an elegant shrug and strokes a hand over a pile of nylon rope nearby. “And how can this boy...afford...your services?” she asks slyly.

Arthur's had enough of her questions. He finds a silencer for the Glock and grabs a few spare clips. He shoves one of the clips into the gun and clicks off the safety. There's a target poster nearby and he uses it to test the kick. After putting four neat holes through the head, he turns back to Mal and clicks the safety on again. “This one's pro bono,” he says.

She knows better than to ask him anymore questions after that.

 

Arthur parks the rental across the street from the motel. He already knows which room they're in. One of his contacts confirmed that a teenager matching Eames' description was staying in the room, so Arthur has to think of how to handle this delicately.

Finally, he just decides to knock on the door. He hears the creak of a cheap bed and some shuffling coming from within. “Who'sit?” a man slurs. Arthur recognizes Eames' father's voice. He hopes the slurring means he's drunk, because that will make Arthur's job much easier.

“Pizza guy,” Arthur says loudly.

The door cracks open a bit and the man's haggard face comes into view. “I didn't – hey!” he yells as Arthur shoves through the door and past him into the room. “You're that asshole from last night! The fuck you doin' here?”

Arthur spots Eames hovering in the bathroom doorway in a white wifebeater and sleep shorts. He looks surprised. Arthur has a moment to notice a purple bruise in the shape of a hand print on Eames' left forearm before he pulls the Glock and aims it at Eames' father. “Sit on the bed,” he says calmly. His voice is cool and collected. He's in the zone, no matter how much rage he feels roiling beneath the surface.

Eames' dad collapses on the bed and glares at him blearily. There's an almost empty bottle of Jim Beam on the bedside table. The man sways a bit and clenches his hands into beefy fists. Arthur notices the bruises on his knuckles and clicks the safety off the gun. “Eames, get dressed, please,” he requests.

“Uh, why?” he says.

Arthur barely spares a glance in his direction before turning his attention back to the man on the bed. “Because you're coming with me,” he replies.

He hears Eames shift his weight uncertainly. “Why are you here?” he asks.

Arthur says, “Fuck it,” and pistol-whips Eames' dad. He watches dispassionately as the man flops back on the bed, unconscious. He turns his full attention to Eames and scowls. “I thought we went over this already. What _I_ don't get is why _you're_ here,” he says.

Eames shifts self-consciously and averts his eyes to the tasteless, generic art hanging on the wall. “'Cuz you think I'm just a fuckin' kid. You don't want me hanging around. If you take me away from him, I won't have anywhere else to go. I saved the money you paid me for stuff, but it's not enough to live on, y'know?”

Arthur listens and tries to be patient, because he can tell Eames has some legitimate concerns. “First of all, I don't think of you as a kid. Secondly, you're assuming a lot without even asking me about it. I have no problem with you 'hanging around,' as you so charmingly put it. Third – and most importantly – why do you think I'd save you from him, just to toss your ass on the street? Do I look like a complete dick to you?”

Eames looks a little dumbfounded by this. “No, I – well, I mean, I...” he cuts himself off. “Just, tell me why you even care. Don't bullshit me, okay?”

Arthur can see that Eames isn't going anywhere without a real answer, so he sighs and pulls some plastic cuffs from his back pocket. After securing Eames' father's wrists, he sits down next to his unconscious body and looks up at Eames. “Fine, I'll tell you, you persistent little bastard,” he says grumpily.

Eames crosses his arms and leans against the door frame. “This oughta be good,” he says. He seems completely unbothered by the rough treatment Arthur has shown his father since his arrival. This gives Arthur hope for the immediate future, but he'll think about that more in a bit.

He clicks the safety back on the Glock and sets it next to the bottle of liquor on the nightstand. “So. When I was a kid about your age,” Eames narrows his eyes at this, but Arthur lifts a shoulder and continues anyway, “I had this friend. Julie.”

Eames waits in silence. Arthur rubs a hand across his mouth and feels the slight tremor that upsets him because he needs steady hands right now. He sighs and looks down at the threadbare carpet at his feet. “What color is this carpet, anyway?” he mutters under his breath. Eames doesn't answer, correctly assuming it was a rhetorical question. He clears his throat. “Right. So, Julie and I were...close. I guess she was my girlfriend, sort of.”

He glances at Eames and sees a frown darken the young man's face. “But I thought you were gay?” he asks, clearly confused.

Arthur shakes his head. “I am. I just, um, didn't know it back then. Well, I probably knew, I just hadn't really admitted it to myself, let alone anybody else.”

Eames nods and gestures for him to continue.

“So...Julie's dad. He used to – to hit her. Sometimes he did more than that, but she didn't tell me. She never told anyone. I never saw her naked, because we didn't y'know, do stuff. Anyway, she hid the bruises really well. I only found out because I walked in on the tail end of a fight. I pretended not to see anything, but she could tell. I tried to convince her to tell someone, but she wouldn't.” He shoots Eames a significant look, but Eames doesn't say anything. He sighs wearily. “She didn't want anyone to know, because it'd been going on for a long time, so I tried my best to protect her.”

Eames slides down the wall next to the bathroom until he's sitting on the disgusting carpet. Arthur spares a moment to wish he'd put some damn pants on, but doesn't say anything.

“What happened?” Eames asks, but his eyes look sad. Like maybe he already knows.

Arthur continues. “I kept her busy, kept her out as much as possible. We did a lot together, but the more time she spent away from her house, the more tense she got. I didn't understand it, but what did I know? I was just a stupid kid. I tried to help, but all I did was make it worse. I thought I was doing the right thing. Anyway, on prom night, I wanted to make her feel really special, so I rented a limo and everything. I know her dad didn't want her to, but somehow she convinced him to let her go. She looked beautiful in her dress. We had a great time at the dance.”

Eames nods to show he's still listening. Arthur fidgets and looks back at Eames' dad, out cold on the bed behind him. He keeps looking at him as he finishes the story. “We got a little bit drunk on champagne, and I should have known better, but I kept her out all night. We passed out on the beach, actually. Anyway. When we woke up, she freaked out. She said her dad was gonna kill her. I called my friend to come get us, and we dropped her off. I guess he was waiting up for her when she got home, and things got...ugly. He was...while I was at my house, sleeping away like a clueless idiot, he was doing...” he chokes on the words.

“It's okay, Arthur. You don't have to say it,” Eames says quietly. Arthur shuts his eyes and clenches them against the tears that well up at the corners. “You don't have to finish if you don't want to.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, I want to. I've never...” he coughs in an attempt to clear the lump in his throat. “Their next door neighbor called the cops because of all the noise. I guess when they showed up, he was outside her bedroom door. His fists were bloody from trying to punch a hole through the door. I was – I was the last person she talked to. She called me, and I could hear him in the background yelling for her to open the door. She was sobbing, and I couldn't really understand what she was saying. I tried to get her to calm down, but she wouldn't. She just kept saying 'I can't, I can't.' I'll never know what she meant. Then she just said 'I'm sorry,' and hung up. Apparently, she slit her wrists. She bled out before the cops got there.”

As soon as he finishes the story, his stomach revolts and he springs up from the bed and rushes to the bathroom, where he collapses in front of the toilet and vomits. He's shaking and retching over and over, his skin cold and clammy, and he feels a few tears hot on his cheeks. Eames follows him in and lays a hand on his back between his shoulderblades. It's comforting. He hears a soft litany of “Shhh, shhh, it's okay, I'm sorry, shhh...” behind him.

Finally, his stomach settles and he leans back on his haunches. Eames runs some tap water into a plastic cup and hands it down to him. He takes it with a shaking hand and swishes some in his mouth before spitting it into the toilet. He collapses back against the wall behind him and watches Eames flush the toilet and wet a thin towel with cold water. This time he kneels in front of Arthur and wipes the sweat from his face. Arthur feels like an idiot, but he's too wrung out to care right now.

Eames' mouth twists in a look of disgust. “What happened to her dad?” he asks.

Arthur swallows and takes the towel from him to mop the sweat from his neck. “Prison. A long time in prison...but it'll never be long enough for what he did to her,” he says vehemently.

Eames is quiet as he sits in front of Arthur. He looks pensive. Arthur clears his throat and begins to pull himself together. “So, will you come with me?” he asks roughly.

“Yeah,” Eames says in a near whisper. “I'll go with you. I mean, it's not as bad as all that, like your friend, but...”

Arthur reaches out to grab his arm but quickly lets go when Eames hisses in pain. “Don't, don't think about it like that. It doesn't matter, don't compare it. I – you're, _fuck_ , your situation is bad, okay? Don't marginalize it just because you know of someone who might've had it worse than you. It's bad enough to justify getting out to save yourself.”

Silence hangs in the air as Eames looks at him, really looks at him. “I guess you're right,” he says finally.

Arthur pushes himself up on shaky legs. He wobbles a bit, but Eames stands and reaches out a steadying hand. He wonders when their situations became reversed, because, who was helping who here?

“I have a car out front and a new identity, for both of us,” he says. Eames' eyebrows shoot up, but Arthur shakes his head as if to say he'll explain more later. “So, um, just...get dressed and bring whatever you need.”

Eames nods. He's at the bathroom door before he turns back and looks at Arthur as if he can see through him. “You're – you, like, kill people or something for a living, don't you?” Eames asks suddenly.

Arthur freezes. “What gave you that impression?” he says evasively, though he knows Eames is too intelligent to fall for that.

Sure enough, Eames shoots a disappointed look at him and waits. Arthur sighs. “What would you say if that's true?” he asks coolly. Better to know now than to have Eames come with him and freak out later when he finds out for sure.

Eames' expression is calm. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” Arthur repeats.

Eames nods. “Yeah. Okay.” The look he gives Arthur now feels significant somehow. Arthur thinks he understands what Eames is trying to tell him without coming right out and saying it, and Arthur's glad.

He watches Eames pack up the old, beaten-up gym bag on the floor. His father's still passed out on the bed, snoring drunkenly now. Arthur briefly wishes he'd wake up, just long enough for this, but finds he really doesn't care either way.

Once Eames has all his things together, Arthur hands him the keys to the car and tells him where it's parked. He doesn't look at Eames when he says, “I'll just be a moment.”

After the door closes quietly behind Eames, Arthur hears a car door open and close in the distance. The motel room is deafeningly quiet. He looks down at Eames' father as he takes a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and snaps them on. He doesn't have fingerprints anymore, but he doesn't want to get anything on his hands.

He rifles through the man's things and takes the valuables to make it look like a robbery. After that's done, he returns to the nightstand and picks up the gun. The silencer on this model is quite good, so Arthur's confident in how quiet this will be.

The man doesn't stir as he removes the plastic hand restraints, but he does let out a loud snore that rips through the serene silence. Without another thought, Arthur pulls the trigger.

It's quiet once more as Arthur makes his way to the door. Eames is waiting.


End file.
